


man hands on misery to man (it deepens like a coastal shelf)

by stardustgirl



Series: the dead go on before us [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (a teeny tiny bit), (or in prison), Adult Ezra Bridger, Adult Tristan Wren, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Bittersweet, Codependency, Dark Ezra Bridger, Emotional self-harm, Everyone is Dead, Ezra Bridger Gets a Hug, Ezra Bridger Has PTSD, Ezra Bridger Needs a Hug, Feelstember, Feelstember 2020, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inquisitor Ezra Bridger, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Purple Prose, Self-Hatred, Sharing a Bed, So much angst, Survivor Guilt, The Empire Wins (Star Wars), Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vignettes, im sorry I know it’s Feelstember but theres, is this a breakup fic? idk. do i LOOK like i know?, someone tell ezra he’s not emotionally available rn pls and thx, the answer is no i do not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustgirl/pseuds/stardustgirl
Summary: As the search for Sabine continues, Tristan and Ezra face hard questions about the reality of their relationship.(Prompt fill for “Overprotective” for Feelstember.)
Relationships: Ezra Bridger/Tristan Wren
Series: the dead go on before us [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882459
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Feelstember 2020





	man hands on misery to man (it deepens like a coastal shelf)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay SO a couple things: one, there will be another fic before this chronologically that’ll explain things a lot more and how their relationship has progressed to this stage and two, Ezra is still dealing with A Lot of Seven trauma that’s not really helping his mental state aha.
> 
> TW: Dissociation, Victim Self-blaming, Referenced Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempts, Referenced Sexual Assault, Survivor’s Guilt, Unhealthy Thought Patterns, Codependency (sort of? on one side at least), Implied/Referenced Torture, Referenced Character Death, Emotional Self-harm (sort of?)

**i.**

It would be easy to fall back into his old patterns.

Every time Twelve looks at Tristan, every time they make eye contact, something rotten and peeling surges up within him to remind him that he isn’t enough, that he is something scaled and pulled from the depths of the ocean planet he nearly lost himself on until Tristan pulled him back from the edge. That he is something bitter and bleeding, preying on his own mind as he tries to turn away from his own thoughts and turn, instead, to a boy he’s known for less than a cycle. That he is something decrepit, something riddled with _holes_ from all the times he’s tried to leave, to rejoin Kanan, and from all the times Seven had drug him back to life with claws whispering _not yet._

Instead, Ezra just tries not to make eye contact, to avoid looking into the hazel gaze and see his flaws staring back at him. Instead, he lets himself lean into the gentle touches, to initiate the physical contact he’s practically been made dependent on.

Instead, he lets himself fall, and he lets himself hope Tristan trusts him more than he trusts himself.

* * *

**ii.**

Tristan is falling.

He fell in love just a little— _just a lot—_ the moment he and Ezra first interacted, of course. And, he thinks, he’s been falling just a little— _just a lot—_ ever since.

The sadness he thought they left behind on that ocean world has lingered, visible in the shadowed way Ezra seems to haunt their stolen ship and the moss that grows in the bitterness of his words whenever the Empire is brought up. Tristan’s hand lingers above him, always, watching carefully for a slip of the tongue or the mind or the foot that would signal Ezra’s own fall, whether it’s into him or away.

Regardless of Ezra’s mood, however, Tristan thinks he hasn’t felt _anything_ this strongly, not in years. Even with Saxon, he never felt his anger run as hot as his longing does now.

Even as they get closer and closer to each false lead and wrong turn, Tristan can feel himself drifting closer and closer into Ezra’s orbit. He doesn’t mind; he actually likes it, if he allows himself a moment of honesty. He’s okay with every part of it, both the feeling of Ezra’s back pressed to his chest in the dark of the ship’s night cycle and the times when sleep is delayed because memories prey upon one or both of them like tookas in the dusk so they’re relegated to just being _there,_ whether that’s someone to cling to to stay in this world and not the next or just someone’s hand rubbing careful circles across their backs. The Empire has been kind to neither of them.

And so, they will be kind to each other.

* * *

**iii.**

Twelve can feel Sabine’s presence, getting closer day by day, looming like the shadow of a Destroyer over this fragile balance they’ve created on the fulcrum of their lost identities. When she sees him, he can only _imagine_ how disappointed she’ll be, how ashamed she’ll be of their little family’s Jedi-in-training and how far he’s fallen.

How he _let himself_ be...be….

Instead, Twelve focuses on Tristan, focuses on being as good and perfect as he can because maybe, if he’s good enough, it’ll be enough to keep Tristan from leaving him after Sabine spills all he’s done.

Though in all honesty, the real question is what _hasn’t_ he done?

He killed Kanan, he killed Ahsoka, he got Sabine imprisoned. If he had to guess, Hera and Zeb and Chopper are long gone now, too; he hasn’t spent much time thinking about them. He doesn’t try to think about _any_ of them, if he’s honest. Thoughts of them make his forehead slick with sweat poured from shame and self-hatred, his heart tight with apprehension and regret. And all of it crawls up his throat like spiders, poisoning whatever words he has to say or breathe or think.

Seven had tried, at first, to bring them up whenever she was _rewarding_ him, but then he would just start crying and turn into a pathetic pile of broken parts that she would say she didn’t want to waste time on. When that happened, she would simply remind him that _he_ was the one who’d gotten everyone captured, that _he_ was the reason Kanan hadn’t kept his kriffing mouth shut, that _he_ was the reason everyone was dead or dying except him because you can’t very well play with corpses.

Then she would leave, would tell him she would return when he had composed himself. He tried not to, but feeling empty as her whispers dug needles under his skin and her hands carved holes into his soul was better than the _griefshameregretguiltsorrow_ he had to face otherwise.

The kisses and the embraces and the nights spent together provide a similar emptiness, only this time Twelve has thrown himself into the riptide of his own volition entirely. And this time is also different, because Tristan doesn’t make his soul crack from rage unable to flare; the ache he brings about is only one of longing unable to be satisfied. And so, they try.

* * *

**iv.**

There is a disconnect between them, a disconnect that feels much like Mother’s quiet fear when contrasted against the background of Sabine’s terror when she ran home from the Academy to _beg_ for belief in a tale as tall as Tarre Viszla’s statue on Mandalore. Tristan longs to bridge that disconnect, to ice it over so thickly that there’s no way either of them could cause it to crumble and crack.

But what he wants, more than that, is to understand the emptiness that seems to be practically intertwined with his every breath and heartbeat. He wants to understand what _he_ can do to ease that vacancy in Ezra’s eyes and heart and breath, to erase it with every soft word whispered within night cycles of the ship. He knows Ezra cares about him, in the detached way that seems to be all he is capable of right now, but he doesn’t mind. It’s okay that they are both still trying to teach themselves how to tread water enough to stay afloat.

They stop at a planet for both fuel for the ship and leads on Sabine, and Tristan carefully points out that they have enough money to rent a room, if they want— _if they don’t stay for months of drinking and losing themselves,_ he leaves unsaid; there’s shame enough under this durasteel roof. Ezra agrees, with that quiet, reserved smile that seems more genuine, somehow, than any other emotion he’s shown beyond the quiet sobs they leave behind in the night cycles and in Tristan’s cabin and in the ‘fresher.

They find a room, and Ezra is oddly quiet, eyeing the single bed as if it’s a foregin entity. It’s been a while since he’s been in a bedroom that isn’t formed of bunks or Imperial monotony, Tristan suspects, though he can’t admit that without also admitting the same of himself. Tristan clears his throat, suggesting that he can sleep on the floor if Ezra wants the bed to himself, though they’ve been sleeping in Tristan’s single-bunk cabin every night for the last two months. Ezra shakes his head mutely, seeming to have to swallow past something within his words before he asks, softly, if it’s okay if they share again. Tristan, of course, agrees.

They retire early that night, and by the time Tristan finds himself drifting near sleep, Ezra’s still laying, as if frozen in stasis, on his back and staring blankly at the ceiling with wide golden eyes that are as vacant and lost within themselves as ever. Tristan shifts closer, rolling onto his side and resting a cautious hand on Ezra’s shoulder. He asks, softly, if it’s okay—if the room is okay, if sharing the bed is okay, if _Ezra_ is okay—

Ezra cuts him off with a kiss as he rolls to face him, and Tristan takes that as his answer.

* * *

**v.**

Seven was possessive. He is not possessive.

Seven was possessive. He is not possessive.

Seven was possessive. He is not possessive.

Twelve repeats this to himself as he walks alongside Tristan through the crowded streets, keeping his eyes on his partner as the crowd parts like water before a watercraft around them. He is not possessive, he does not get the sick sense of satisfaction that comes with watching Tristan show him kindness that Seven did whenever Twelve bent over backwards to please her. He is not possessive, he does not allow himself to tell Tristan he can only love _him_ and no one else like Seven did as she whispered that Twelve was entirely _unable_ to be loved except by her because who else would love a broken windup toy?

And then he sees someone’s gaze lingering a few minutes too long on Tristan, their eyes a bit too interested, and something _twists_ within his chest. He shifts slightly to the side, in an attempt to block their view, and loses himself in the Force in an attempt to feel out their intentions.

The moment he can be sure they’re those belonging to the one eyeing his partner and not another’s stray thoughts, he leaves Tristan and approaches the offender, punching them squarely in the nose.

A fight breaks out in seconds.

Tristan manages to drag him away before he can pull his lightsaber in retaliation for the blows he’s already received—though he’s not sure how—and they manage to make it back to the ship with enough fuel to get them to the location of their next lead. The whole way back, he tells himself he only did it because they might have recognized Tristan, that it wasn’t out of any _jealousy_ or anything even _remotely_ like that.

He’s lying to himself again.

Once on the ship, Tristan pilots, and Twelve paces in his own cabin, ready to pull his hair out even though it’s not even long enough to do so yet.

He feels the jolt when they hit hyperspace, followed shortly thereafter by footsteps and a knock. Twelve keys the door open himself, gaze everywhere but on Tristan.

Tristan asks him what he knew he would, and Twelve scrambles for an excuse, only to come up short. He swallows, hard, and admits the real reason. And it’s _not_ the one he’s been telling himself repeatedly the last half hour.

Tristan is silent for a long, long moment.

And then he asks Twelve what they are.

Twelve replies automatically, about himself, at least; he says he’s just someone trying to make up for their mistakes. But _Tristan—_

He lets his heart bleed through, for the first time in two years.

He tells Tristan just how beautiful he is, how much better his life is because they’ve met, how he practically _rescued Twelve_ from the other Inquisitors—he hides Seven’s crimes still, keeps them shoved down into his throat where no one but his own demons can see them, can see just how dirtied he is—how he wouldn’t have wanted any of that to go any other way.

Tristan stands, quiet. Twelve considers closing the distance between them, considers kissing him just to ensure that he won’t be too furious with his actions, considers asking if he wants more than Twelve’s already offered to make up for everything. When Tristan still doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment, Twelve finds himself about to do all of those things, to do anything he can to keep this from escalating into something he’s deserved since that first drink he took at their first stop. He has to press his palms against his legs to keep from wringing them, to keep from using them to initiate an embrace he’s growing less sure by the minute that Tristan wants.

When Tristan finally speaks, the words are in the same soft tone they’ve always been, though now they’re accompanied by an expression of uncertainty.

Tristan asks him what their _relationship_ is.

And Twelve doesn’t know how to respond.

* * *

**vi.**

He tells himself that Ezra doesn’t say anything for so long because he thinks he doesn’t _need_ to.

That’s what he tells himself, over and over and over, as Ezra’s obvious anxiety seems to come to a screeching halt as his brain short-circuits.

Ezra opens his mouth, begins to stammer out a response, and then stops. He hesitates, trying again seconds later before stopping similarly.

Tristan tries to keep his brows from furrowing, tries to keep the pain that’s bubbling up in his chest from showing. This is a simple question, right? He hasn’t misread the situation, right?

Saxon always said that he was intelligent, even as he would turn on his words and make a comment about how Sabine was much better at matters of the mind in the same sentence despite her disloyalty. Tristan knew it stung, even then, but now he’s not sure _how_ he feels.

And Ezra still hasn’t said a word.

Tristan sighs, letting the disappointment show now. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say how he thinks they’re clearly _something_ even if he doesn’t have the words to express what that _something_ is. He just turns, making to leave.

And Ezra asks him to wait.

Tristan stops, but doesn’t turn back.

Ezra asks, voice quiet, if he’s doing all of this wrong.

Tristan turns, brows furrowed. He’s not sure what _this_ is referring to.

Ezra, shaking, comes closer, reaches to rest a careful hand on Tristan’s shoulder, and asks him what he should be doing instead, if this isn’t what he wants.

And Tristan….

Tristan doesn’t _know._

He can hardly tell what Ezra means by that, what he means by the hand on his shoulder and the still-unanswered question thick in the air between them. Before he can return Ezra’s own question, he needs to figure out what they are to each other.

He tells Ezra he doesn’t know, and leaves his cabin in silence louder than a strill.

**Author's Note:**

> there will be less angst at some point lol I PROMISE
> 
> also dw if/when they find sabine she’s going to have a Good Long Talk with them (mostly ezra)


End file.
